CO
by bikelock28
Summary: A series of Clara Oswald one-shots.
1. Thin

**CO**

 **Helloelcome to my collection of Clara-centric one-shots. They'll be canon and multi-genre. First up, here is some Clara/12 fluffy banter.**

Thin

"Are you always this skinny?" Clara asked one day, leaning against the TARDIS console.

"You've met all of me," the Doctor shrugged, "You tell me,"

"I don't _remember_ you _all_. Well, bits. Voices, hairstyles, one violently-coloured coat," she said with a wince, "But the only versions I really _know_ are the three I've met for real,"

The Doctor chose not to correct her on what " for real" constituted. "Four," he pointed out, "The War,"

"Oh yeah. Are you counting him now?"

"Yes," said the Doctor firmly.

"You're consecutive, right? There's you, and before that there was the bow tie and before that was the silly hair and the overcoat".

It was strange to talk about his previous incarnation- her first- so casually. She thought about him a lot, dreamt about him. She missed him. She truly loved the current Growly Scottish Doctor, but was grieving for Surprisingly Sexy Maths Teacher Doctor. How strange, to grieve the man stood in front of you.

"You thought the one with the overcoat had sillier hair than the one with the bow tie?" the Doctor boggled.

"Yeah," shrugged Clara, "All that gel and spikes. Must have taken ages to do in the morning,"

"Twenty minutes if I was in a rush," the Doctor answered casually, "Forty if I had time". He smirked to himself at the pun in 'having time'.

"Forty minutes on hairgel? That's not you," Clara scoffed. The Doctor looked at her shrewdly. "Well," she muttered, "You know what I mean. So before Boyband Hair there was War Grandpa?"

"No. One in between,"

"Was _he_ skinny?"

The Doctor pondered, then murmured, "He was short. I suppose I was, sort of...lean,"

It didn't escape Clara's notice that he switched between "I" and "he" when discussing his previous incarnations.

"Are you like one of those supermodels who can't weigh above six stone?"

"I do a lot of running," the Doctor mumbled, "The one you remember with the technicolour dreamcoat- he was a little portly. Err...". The mentally ran through his previous regenerations, remembering what it was like to be in their skin and wear their trousers. Now she mentioned it, he'd always been a similar build. "Well, I suppose certain traits do carry over," he admitted.

"So always skinny, always white, always male," Clara counted off on her fingers, "Sounds like someone's studied how to have power and influence,"

"It's not conscious!" the Doctor protested, "Have you ever had every cell in your body change? It isn't exactly easy to control,"

"I suppose you do change age," Clara conceded, "Who d'you reckon does better from life- skinny young white men, or skinny old white men?"

The Doctor glared at her, eyebrows flexing menacingly. (Well, they were always menacing).

"You're the person to ask," Clara claimed, grinning, "D'you ever hear the story of Tiresias? He got turned into a woman for seven years for some reason, and when he was a man again the gods were arguing over who enjoyed sex more, men or women, and they asked him cos they reckoned he'd know best. I can't remember which he said but one of the gods didn't like the answer and they-"

"-made him blind. 'S not true, of course. He went blind after he was bitten by one of those snakes he trampled on. I was there,"

Clara rolled her eyes and resisted the temptation to bring up mansplaining. "That's what you're like," she needled, "...except with how scary you are to aliens, not sex,"

Again, the Doctor said nothing.

"Which is it, then?" Clara persisted, partly to annoy him, partly because she hadn't realised how awkward it was to bring up sex in front of him until she'd said it, and now desperately wanted to change the subject, "Do you get more intergalactic street cred as young prettyboy or snarly older dude?"

The Doctor glanced away abruptly, and a strangely distant expression passed over his face. "Prettyboy?" he echoed. Then he seemed to regain himself and asked, "Which one's that then, Spikey Hair or Floppy Hair?"

"Answer my question first," Clara ordered.

"Intergalactic street cred," he mocked, "You tell me,"

"You can't avoid a question by asking me to answer it," Clara scoffed.

"'S what you just did,"

Clara rolled her eyes and gave up pestering him. "So. Where shall we go next?"

The Doctor thought for a few moments. "Haven't been to Shanghai for a while," he thought aloud, "Shanghai?"

"Sure,"

"You pick a year,"

"1851,"

"Summers were terrible in the 1850s,"

"1488,"

"Ooh, nasty stomach bug that year,"

"2006,"

"That was about ten minutes ago for you, wasn't it?"

"1851. I don't care if it's raining, I don't care if there's mutant fish trying to rule China, just let's go and eat dim sum and see the terracotta army!"

The Doctor smirked, pleased that he'd wound her up, and began flicking controls and twisting dials on the TARDIS.

"You can have a double portion, help put some weight on you," Clara suggested, hitting him lightly in the stomach.

"I eat," the Doctor mumbled in protest. This, Clara knew, was true- last week she'd seen him demolish a lemon curd at the Rockefeller Centre in 1927. He'd happily put away a whole roast dinner if nobody else claimed it.

"How about we choose for each other?" Clara suggested, "Me and Dad play this game in restaurants where we choose a cheese for each other from the board,"

"Alright. But remember I'm-"

"Vegetarian, I know," Clara sighed.

"Oh, and Clara?" the Doctor called, as the TARDIS thunked into a landing.

"Yeah?"

His face cracked into an evil grin. "Which one's the pretty boy?"

 **Fin.**

 **Thank you for your time, please review.**


	2. Persuasion

Persuasion

"A Gifted and Talented Group? Doesn't it sound like a good idea?" Clara enthuses to the staff room on Wednesday morning. Her mate Michelle who started a successful group at the schol she works at in Havering. After some consideration, Clara's planning to unleash her own group on Coal Hill.

She's met with a bombardment of questions- "For every year group?", "How's 'gifted' classified?", "Didn't we try something similar a few years ago with Extension Maths?"

The latter is from Mr Listing, a Maths teacher who is rumoured amongst the pupils to have been at the school since it opened in the 1870s.

"This won't be just Maths," Clara explains, "It'll be all sorts of things. I'm thinking of starting with Year Eight or Nine. Ten and Eleven will be too busy with GCSEs, and Seven's too young,"

"Sounds a good idea," Adrian nods.

"I wouldn't say Year Eight," Mrs O'Donovan tuts, "They're a handful, that lot. Lots more gifted kids in Year Nine,"

"Thanks," huffs Jason Greave, Deputy Head of Year Eight.

"Will you want funding?" Tina pipes up.

"Not at first. But I'm hoping that after a trial we can extend it, so maybe we will need a bit of financing in the future. Oh, and I want to do a trip,"

"Nice idea," Alison chips in, "Day or overnight?"

"Maybe one night?" Clara suggests. Overnight trips are hassle, so it's better to start bidding high, then come down to a day trip if nobody's onside or parents deem it too expensive. Some more discussion and questioning follows, but by the staff meeting has finished, Clara seems to have garnered enough enthusiasm for the group, and Miss Okeke-Bryant has even offered to help out.

"That went well," Clara chirps to Danny on the way out of the room.

"Yeah," he nods, "Can I nominate someone? Emily Hammerton. She's in my top set in Year Nine. Amazing kid, whip-smart and doesn't pretend not to be in front of the boys,"

"Yeah I think I know her. But she's not invited,"

"Why?"

"Because this isn't about the genius computer-whizz Shakespeare-spouting kids. I want the girls who are smart but too shy to tak, the boys who think they're to cool to be clever. The kids who could really benefit from a small group and learning in a different way," Clara enthuses, then adds, "Oh, and also I'm having Year Eight, not Nine,"

"But Mrs O'Donovan-"

"- told me not it was a bad idea. So what am I going to do?"

"Not listen to her and go ahead anyway?"

Clara pecks him on the cheek. "Now you're getting it."

* * *

"Gifted? Do you really think I'm _gifted,_ Miss?" Ruby gasps gleefully.

"Yes. Yes I do,"

"I thought, maybe cos last week when I got angry at Monisha you didn't like me anymore,"

"Of course I like you, Ruby. I like all of your class," Clara says patiently.

"No you don't,"

"Ruby-"

"You hate Eskie," Ruby tells her.

"Ruby, we're here to discuss Gifted and Talented Group on Monday lunchtimes," Clara reminds her, "I want to keep this group open to your ideas, so if there anything off the top of your head that you'd like to do-"

"Can we do Art? But, like, the fun type. We only paint with Mr Shehera so can we do, like, sculptures and stuff?"

"Fantastic. I'll ask the Art Department if we can borrow some clay,"

"This boy in Sixth Form did something with ironing and crayons or something, it was so cool,"

"Oh, encaustic art. Well, I'll see if we've got the resourc-"

"We do," Ruby confirms, "I know cos of that boy in Sixth Form". She is one of the most bossy kids Clara's ever met, thinks she runs the bloody school. She reminds Clara a lot of herself as a twelve-year-old. That's why Clara likes her, and it's also why Clara sometimes wants to throttle her.

"I'll look into it," she promises vaguely, "Sounds like you're in, though?"

"Oh yeah!" Ruby affirms happily, "It sounds really good, Miss Oswald. I can't wait to tell the rest of our class that you think I'm gifted!"

She beams and skips out of the classroom. Clara groans.

* * *

"Are you bullshitting us?"

"Samson! Language!"

Samson clicks his teeth and mumbles, "Sorry, Miss. But it just sounds like some random kids from our year doin' more school,"

"It won't be schoolwork. It'll be a laugh. Building rockets, doing experiments-"

"We do that in Science,"

"Writing stories, talking about books you're reading-"

"English,"

"Creating your own research projects, and-"

"Extra homework!?" Samson balks, "I already do five hours of learnin' a day. This is more at lunch and more at home,"

"It won't be like school,"

"It'll be in school. Leaning stuff. Sounds like school to me," Samson sulks.

"Well, what would you like to do?" Clara asks, trying a different tack.

Samson considers. "Play football,"

"We'll be doing games and-"

"Football isn't a game, it's a sport,"

"You could invent your own sport. That'd be fun, wouldn't it. This group's going to be about creative things like that. I know you can be creative when you put your mind to it- you told a really good ghost story on the sleepover last year,"

Samson raises a smirk at the memory, "Yeah, that was funny. Lucas nearly pissed himself,"

"What did I just say about swearing?

"Oh yeah, sorry,"

"My point is that you can come up with good ideas when you want to. I think this group would benefit from that,"

Samson considers for a moment. "I suppose it sounds okay," he concedes, "As long as it's actually interesting. And if you call it something better than 'Gifted and Talented', cos I ain't telling my mates that's what I'm doing,"

"See, that's the kind of creative input I'm looking for? What do you think we should call the group, then?"

"Dunno," Samson shrugs, enthusiasm slipping away as remember where he is, and slouches back in his chair.

"But you _are_ keen?" Clara presses.

Samson mumbles something, then adds in a louder, affronted voice, "But I ain't comin' if you say it's gonna be good but you're just bullsh-"

"Samson, think very carefully about the your next syllable,"

"- just lyin' to me," Samson corrects himself.

"So a cooler name, actually interesting, and actually good," Clara says, counting Samson's lists of conditions on her fingers, "I know I'm a teacher but I think I can stretch to that. See you Monday."

* * *

Maebh cocks her head thoughtfully. "Okay,"

"Oh," Clara is surprised at Maebh's calm acceptance, "You want to come? That's great, Maebh, fantastic,"

"Who else is invited?" Maebh asks.

"One from every tutor group. You, Ruby McKinnock, Bradley Flood, Samson Nwosu, Katherine Chen, Zak Phillipson, Aisha Yingala, Matthias...oh, what's his surname? Matty in 8B?"

"That's a lot of boys," Maebh notes warily.

"Four boys four girls," Clara points out.

"Yes, but it'll feel like four boys three girls, won't it? I won't count myself," Maebh counters.

"Why's that worry you? You can more than enough hold your own against the boys,"

"Yes, but they're loud. I have French with Bradley and Zak and they're loud, they-"

"Maebh. You'll be fine. Besides, you'll be in a small group so you'll get to talk to them properly, they won't be showing off like they do in a big class. Bradley and Zak are bright lads, they might surprise you,"

Maebh looks as if the last thing she can imagine doing is being friends with Bradley and Zak.

Clara rushes on, "We'll be doing art, writing, lots of discussion, sharing ideas. And the cool stuff you don't get to do in normal lessons- sculptures, maybe some dissection if I can get it past Mr Lucker," she winks.

"Eurgh," Maebh shudders, "I don't want to cut up rabbits and birds,"

"Oh, it won't be whole animals. It'll just be hearts and, err...brains," Clara cringes at herself as Maebh looks horrified, "Anyway, special things like that. You can bring your violin in, if you like,"

Maebh loves music, and seems reassured at the thought of having her violin in front of her to protect her.

"So does it sound like something you'd be interested in?" Clara asks.

"Yes, Miss,"

"Good. Oh, and Maebh, I wanted to say how much I liked the story you wrote for your homework last week. I loved the Victorian setting,"

"Thanks. I liked writing it,"

"That's the most important thing. Have you read _Oliver Twist?"_

"No. I've seen the musical, though," Maebh shrugs.

"See if they've got it in the library, I think you'd enjoy it,"

Maebh looks uncomfortable. "Doesn't he...doesn't he get lost though, Miss?"

Clara grimaces. _Dammit dammit dammit. Stupid Clara,_ she berates herself. "Oh, right yeah. Well, what about _The Secret Garden_ or _The Little Princess?_ They're nice stories,"

Awkwardnss lingers in the air as Maebh answers distractedly, "Okay,"

"I'll see if I can find them, shall I?" Clara says hurriedly.

"Thank you". Maebh's voice is timid and Clara mentally kicks herself again.

"You're welcome, Maebh," she says, "Now, off you pop, eh?".

* * *

"But I ain't gifted," Bradley frowns.

"Course you are. Like I said, your spelling's improved. Mr Hensman says you're one of the best boys in his Geography class- and you're holding up that athletics team," Clara tells him.

Bradley is evidently unconvinced but thankfully he doesn't push it.

"So how does it sound? Monday lunchtimes in here, we'll do something special, creative. There might be a trip at the end of term,"

Bradley's eyes light up momentarily, then flicker back to suspicion, "A trip where?"

"Not sure yet, but it'll be exciting,"

"Can it be on a Tuesday or a Friday? I wanna miss French,"

"Maybe,"

"You don't seem to know a lot about this club, Miss Oswald," Bradley points out, "You don't know what we're gonna do, or where we're going,"

Clara isn't sure how to respond. He has a point. Sometimes it's easy to think that Bradley Flood is all shouting and upturned desks, but behind it all he's a sharp kid, good at reading people. It's why Clara wanted him on Gifted & Talented in the first place, but now it's a detriment.

 _"_ At least tell me there's cool people coming," he states.

"Well, Miss Okeke-Bryant and I reckon one person from each tutor group in the year,"

"Can Josh come? Josh is clever,"

"It isn't about being _clever_. And I've chosen Maebh from Josh's tutor group,"

"The weird girl?"

"She's not weird, Bradley. She's just a bit different and she's had a really tough time lately,"

"She's posh though, ain't she? Her she talks, like, proper posh,"

"Perhaps you'd like her if you spoke to her. This group is about trying new things and meeting new people. Developing yourself. I think you'd benefit from it,"

Bradley exhales dramatically and mumbles, "Okay,"

"Is that a yes?" Clara asks hopefully.

"Nah, I meant 'Alright you think I'll benefit'. I ain't sayin' yes. Can I go now, Miss?"

"In a sec. I get you're not saying yes, but you're not saying no, are you Bradley?"

Bradley sighs. "No, Miss," he concedes, "I ain't sayin' no."

* * *

"And Clara, how's your Gifted and Talented Group coming along?" Mr Greave asks in the staff meeting a couple of Wednesdays later.

"Fab," she beams, stretching the truth slightly, "Brilliant. Had our first meeting on Monday and it went really well. I've made a list of things the kids want to do- the feasible ones. Some of them I think we've got the equipment for, others I might have to borrow or apply for funding".

Nothing makes a staff-room groan more than the words _apply for funding,_ so Clara rushes on, "I got all the kids I invited turning up- even Samson Nwosu. Once we were in the room they got chatting to each other to get them on each other's wavelength. I think it'll be a worthwhile project,"

"Well. That sound promising," says Adrian.

"So no hitches then?" asks Mr Listing.

"Nope," says Clara firmly, "I think it's going to be fine...".

 **Fin.**


	3. Grave

**Set during 13.07, _Name Of The Doctor._**

Grave

First things first. Clara sends a few angry texts to Angie insisting that she texts back the second the film ends. The Doctor's greatest secret may be being discovered but Clara's got to keep the Maitland kids safe. Next, she makes a pot of tea, because this is an emergency. And then she explains to the Doctor about the séance, Vastra, Jenny, Strax, the strange, threatening men and the women who made tea turn to champagne. And about how Jenny Flint has been murdered. The Doctor sits to listen, barely moving while Clara recounts what happened in the dream.

"She said it was a word she'd heard about you before,"

"Yes?"

"She said 'Trenzalore'".

The Doctor's head snaps up, his eyes meet Clara's. "What?" she asks, alarmed.

His face is aghast, mouth hanging open, blood draining from under the skin, terror flickering behind his eyes. Clara isn't sure what's more disturbing, the horror he's showing or the speed at which it seems to have crept on him.

"Vastra said it was something to do with Trenzalore," Clara repeats. The Doctor just stares at her. A moment passes. Then another. Clara doesn't know where to look. Finally, the Doctor swallows gruffly, and sits back in his chair. Clara rushes off to the kitchen to busy herself pouring tea. She glances over at him every few seconds- usually the sort of glance she wouldn't want him to notice, but there's no chance of that now. He isn't paying attention to her. He's still, perhaps stiller than Clara's ever seen him, gazing intently into the space in front of him. His wrist is curved at an odd angle but he doesn't seem to notice. The silence is deafening and it isn't long until Clara can't bare it anymore.

"So who was she then," she asks, "The lady with the funny name and the space hair?"

"And old...friend of mine," he answers.

"What, like an ex?" Clara asks before she can stop herself. The Doctor having a girlfriend, let alone an ex-girlfriend, is a laughable idea. He's cute and he knows it, he gets flustered around girls, but as far as Clara's concerned the one woman he's got enough time for is the TARDIS.

"Yes an ex". Clara's taken aback, by both this admission and by the quiet solemnity of the Doctor's tone. She stops mid-pour to look at him. Before Clara can push the topic of his apparent ex, the Doctor continues, "River asked Vastra for the exact words- what were they?"

Clara brings the mugs over. "The Doctor has a secret he will take to the grave," she recites, "It is discovered". The last word dies in her mouth as she sees that he's got tears in his eyes.

"Doctor,". He gestures aimlessly, then clamps his hand to his chin. "And it was Trenzalore, it was definitely Trenzalore". His voice is quaking, cracking, and he says it as a statement more than a question.

Clara's floored. Scared. It takes her a couple of seconds to manage a "Yeah,".

The Doctor rubs his face, mouth wobbling, and exhales deeply. He's on the verge of heavy, ugly crying. Clara wonders if she should comfort him, but he seems past comfort. Before she can decide what to do the Doctor shakes himself sternly, blinks and says in a much less quaky voice, "Sorry". It's the sort of 'sorry' which sounds like it's going to lead into an explanation, but none comes. Instead, the Doctor is suddenly on his feet and dashing out of the room, running past Clara before she can blink. The door clicks shut behind him. Clara puts down the tea tray and follows him outside. He's fast- by the time she's out of the front door the Doctor's disappeared. But is isn't hard to tell where he'll be. Where else would go but the TARDIS? The Doctor doesn't go for walks when he's stressed or upset- he coops up in his box, usually pretending to fix part of it. But when Clara opens the door she can't see him.

"Doctor?"

No reply. She takes a few more careful steps into the box, shutting the door gingerly behind her.

"Doctor. I..." she tails off, lost as to how to end the sentence. _Doctor, I'm scared. Doctor I think you are too. Doctor, why did you never tell me you had an ex-girlfriend?_

Thankfully, a hoarse voice calls up from underneath the console. "Here...I'm here,"

Clara lets out a sigh of relief she hadn't known she was holding in. She walks down the stairs at probably the slowest speed she's ever done so. She folds her arms across her chest; a sliver of defence. The Doctor is sitting awkwardly at the end of the time rotor, fingers twitching nervously around his pockets. A small boy hiding in his bedroom. Clinging behind his mother's skirts. The TARDIS is so many things to him, Clara muses, but all of them are Safety.

"Well?"

After a pause which is much shorter than Clara anticipated, he explains, "Trenzalore. I've heard the same of course". The boy is gone; his voice crackles like an old man's. "Dorium mentioned it; a few others. Always suspected what it was, never wanted to find out myself". He stands up, pulls his sonic from his pocket, scans it in the vague direction of the wires above him and doesn't bother to pretend to check the readings before slipping it back into his jacket. "River would know, though. River always knew,"

He fiddles with the wires again, then beckons Clara. "Right, come here, give me your hand. Now, the co-ordinates you saw will still be in your memory- I'm linking you into the TARDIS telepathic circuit, won't hurt a bit,"

He stamps the nozzle at the end of the wire onto Clara's hand. It feels like a large bee-sting.

"Ow!" she protests.

He looks down at her, eyes boring into her like lasers. His chin and jaw look even huger and bonier than usual. Sometimes it's easy to forget that he's an alien. Then there's moments like this when he's strange-looking and intense and talking about a mysterious legendary location which terrifies him. You can hardly get more alien than that.

His eyes scan hers. "I lied".


	4. Carving

Carving

The Doctor drops his pencil and runs a hand through his hair. He's grown it lately so that it sprawls upwards, straggling out from his head. He'll admit that it's a tad "mad professor", but he likes the feel of his wife running her fingers through it. She's even stopped teasing him about the colour.

"Right, come on," he berates himself, flexing his fingers and picking up the pencil again. It's been a long time since he was good at drawing. His last few regenerations could barely produce anything more elaborate than stick men. Chin Boy liked to mess about with paints but that was more because he enjoyed making a mess than because of any skill or interest in producing art. The Doctor's current regeneration has more prowess at drawing, painting and music. He likes that. Of course, often he's too busy racing around helping out and getting into scrapes to time to have time to draw or paint. But now there's another twenty-one years to spend with his wife on Darillium. For once, the Time Lord has time. It's taken some getting used to, but the Doctor's enjoying it now. Space to breathe. Time to process things. There's plenty to do on Darillium, and even if he and River don't fancy any of it they take the TARDIS somewhere else. Besides, how could he ever to bored with River Song?

And then there's art. Drawing takes up much of the Doctor's time these days. There's a stack of sketchbooks and sheets of paper beside his desk, and plenty more piles inside the TARDIS (which is parked, for the moment, in the corner of the bedroom). He doodles Sontarins and Slitheen, sketches designs for spaceships, maps out constellations, draws Oods, angels and androids. It's exciting to be able to capture everything he's seen and done in pencil and ink. The Doctor's favourite thing to draw, though, is people. He loves sketching River, so much so that he's taken to keeping his sketchbook on his bedside table so he can draw her in her sleep. It's the only time she's still and quiet long enough for him to capture her properly. He likes mapping the contours of her face and scribbling the frantic curls of her hair. The Doctor draws his other friends too. Perhaps it helps him cope with losing them. He loves drawing in Rose's eyeliner in thick pencil, shading the shadows of Jamie's deep-set eye-sockets, dotting in Amy's freckles, sketching Nyssa's delicate features.

Most of all though, he draws Clara. Clara Oswald, over and over and over. Sometimes she is small, slim, dark-skinned and giggling. In the next drawing she's bigger with frizzy ringlets and a glare. Another Clara has a buzzcut, glasses and combat boots. A tall, olive-skinned Clara wearing a dress and leggings. Redhead Clara dressed in a scruffy tracksuit. Afro Clara in a ball gown. Clara Clara Clara Clara, for pages and pages. It's the sort of obsession River would bridle jealously at (even after all this time, he's still not sure how sincere her jealousy is and how much of it is her pretending to keep him on his toes), but he's told her, many times, about what happened to Clara. River knows what it's like to love and lose somebody in such odd circumstances. She tries to help him mourn, even though he isn't sure what he's mourning for. She looks at his pictures, listens to his clouded memories of Clara Oswald and what they did and saw together. She asks him honestly if he thinks he's going to find her again. She beams with him when he says yes and holds him tight when he says no. She doesn't even roll her eyes when the pictures of Clara slip off the desk and clutter up the floor.

The sketch the Doctor is working on at the moment is of a Clara who is white, blonde, round-faced and short. Smiley and slightly pixie-ish in appearance. Sometimes the Doctor will picture a face in his head and draw it out, though often he lets the pencil lead him, hoping that if he doesn't think about it too much, paper and led will give him the answer. That's what he's doing with the current Clara, although he's stuck on her nose. He's had three attempts at it and none of them look right. The upturned nose made her look like she was smelling something unpleasant but a Roman nose didn't fit with the rest of her face. Perhaps it's a wider, flatter nose. The Doctor lightly sketches one in, but that makes her eyes look too far apart. Maybe her nose is crooked? The Doctor tries to draw it, but that doesn't work either. He erases the nose and tries again, lightly sketching a long-ish, downward-sloped nose. A-ha, that's it. The Doctor draws over the outline again, defines the lines, adds detail, dots in a few freckles. Perfect. _That's_ the nose this Clara needed. He looks over the picture again, makes a couple of final adjustments, then holds it up to inspect. It's one of his better ones, he thinks proudly. The line weighting's good, the angles are all right, the eyes and mouth are in proportion, that new nose really works. Perhaps some of the outlines need tidying up, and the hair needs a bit of work- but overall not bad at all. The Doctor looks at the drawing thoughtfully for a few more moments. Then he sighs heavily, puts the picture onto the stack of paper at the back of the desk, and runs a hand though his hair again.

It still isn't Clara.

None of them ever are.


	5. Tomorrow

**7.6.**

Tomorrow

Clara told him to come back tomorrow. But really he was hers from the moment she looked out of her bedroom window and saw him waiting outside, sitting in the lamplight behind a laptop and a table full of junk, gazing up at her with a smile.


	6. Touch

**Inspired by the beautiful scene in the TARDIS at the end of 9.6 _The Woman Who Lived._ Set at some point after _Last Christmas._**

Touch

"I shouldn't have lied to you," the Doctor mutters.

"I shouldn't have lied to you," Clara repeats solemnly.

"Well, glad that's settled then, let's go to Glastonbury-"

"No! I...I think we need to sort things, Doctor,"

"What things? Is it about your marking again? I told you, Year Nine have all copied off Wikipedia and they're all wrong. I should know, I played Atari with Mary Wollstencr-"

"About us. You and me. We both lied to each other and I think we need to address that, not just apologise". She gives him her Scary Miss Oswald glare.

There's a nervous pause, until the Doctor challenges, "Well, go on then. Address it,"

"You didn't find Gallifrey," Clara accuses.

"No. I didn't,"

"Did you look?"

"Of course I looked," he snaps, "I went to the co-ordinates Missy gave me and it wasn't there,"

"But could-"

"It wasn't there," he growls. Another pause, this time more tense. Then he rounds on her. "And Danny Pink's dead,"

"Yeah. He sent back a- he sent back somebody who shouldn't have died. A boy,"

"Oh. Well. That was very nice of him,"

"Yeah, it was," Clara nods, "He was a good man,"

The Doctor doesn't reply and pretends to be busy typing on the TARDIS computer. Clara watches him for a second, then thumps her hand on the console. "Doctor! We need to talk,"

"What is there to say? Clara? What is there to say?" he demands, and it gives Clara a grim satisfaction that she's made him lose his temper, "I didn't find Gallifrey, you didn't find Danny. Curtain falls, goodnight everybody, please take all your belongings when leaving the train,"

"We need to be different. We shouldn't have lied to each other," Clara answers, trying hard not to raise her voice, "We should have told each other we were hurting so we could have been there for each other. Like friends,"

"I can't promise not to lie to you," the Doctor states, "Sometimes for your own protection-"

"Don't you dare patronise me,"

"This is the truth, Clara," he hisses, "Do you want me to patronise you or do you want me to lie?"

"Here we go again, _I'm a big bad Time Lord and I'm so much wiser than all the rest of you,"_ she mocks, rolling her eyes.

"So you lying to _me_ wasn't patronising?

"I didn't want you to feel guilty about going back to Gallifrey. I wanted you to think I was happy,"

"You weren't happy. We said goodbye on that street corner and you looked like you'd just had your liver transplant cancelled,"

"So why didn't you ask what was wrong?" Clara wails.

The Doctor splutters for a moment before shrugging lamely, "You're human, it could have been anything,"

Clara does what she tells the kids in Anger Management to do; close her eyes, breathe out slowly and count to ten. "Okay. Doctor. Can we agree that from now on, we'll be honest with one another about personal stuff. We won't lie to each other about missing planets or missing boyfriends, or things we've been promised that didn't happen. Can you do that for me?"

She opens her eyes. The Doctor is looking at her intently. After a long time he says gruffly, "Yes. Agreed. Unless it's for your own protection, or the protection of the universe, agreed,"

 _He always has to shove in some facetious caveat,_ Clara grumbles internally. But she knows that that promise is the best she's going to get from him. "Thank you,"

"Are we done?" the Doctor asks impatiently, "Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it,"

"Well then," he huffs, and starts flicking switches again. Clara holds her arms out hopefully for hug.

"What?" he asks, playing dumb.

She cocks her head. "You know,"

"Hugging? After everything we've just said about lying, you still want to hug?"

"Yeah. It's what people do after a deep chat,"

"It's a way to hide your face," he intones stonily.

"Not everything has to be a cynical one-liner. It's just a hug. I think we should hug more,"

The Doctor rolls his eyes theatrically. Clara rolls hers back. They fold their arms simultaneously and glare at each other for a few moments. Clara's the first to break.

"Okay, fine," she relents, unfolding her arms and crossing over to the Doctor, "How about this?"

She moves behind him, puts her arms around his chest and rests her head against his shoulder. He smells of guitar cases and new books and old metal. His chest doesn't feel as narrow as it looks although his hoodie is significantly more threabare. Clara's hugged him less than a dozen times, but it feels like she belongs here. She doesn't say that, of course. What she says is: "See, now we can see each others' faces,"

The Doctor looks down at her. For few long moments his expression is granite. Then it cracks into a gentle smile.

"Nice?" Clara asks, risking squeezing him tighter. She's close enough to lean up and kiss his cheek, but she doesn't. One step at a time.

"Nice," he nods.

Clara's tempted to add a _see, told you you'd like it_ but bites her tongue. She says nothing, just holds him and burrows her head into his shoulder. They stay like that for a long time. Then the Doctor grins devilishly at her and says, "I think I'd still prefer a hand-shake".

 **Fin.**

 **Thanks for reading, please leave a review.**


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